Drumstick
by letmefallasleep
Summary: A young Dixon brothers one-shot, with a quasi-happy ending... 'T' for language, non-graphic abuse, and violence.


A/N: Alright, so little one-shot while I'm working on the next chapter of 'Never Too Late'. Mind you, this is completely different from that story. Personally, I think Merle probably beat the hell out of Daryl most -if not all -of their lives, and probably enjoyed every second of it, but I had a brief, fleeting thought that maybe, Merle just did the best he could in a bad situation. So I guess what I'm saying is, even in the fictional world of the Walking Dead, I really don't believe this is in Merle's character. Dunno, guess I just needed a quasi-happy, semi-cuddly story.

* * *

11 year old Daryl sat, head hanging, as Merle paced the floor on the other side of the table.

"I'm sorry, Merle, it… It was –"

"If you say 'accident', boy, I'm gonna tan your hide, an' then hang it from the front door," 19 year old Merle snapped, smashing his fists on to the table. "They gonna send you to _juvie_, Darlena!"

Daryl flinched, trying to make himself smaller in the chair, as his older brother resumed his pacing.

"You got any idea what Pop is gonna do? Hell, you better _hope_ they send you up 'fore they tell him, otherwise your ass ain't even gonna _make_ it there! An' for what?! So you could have a damn popsicle?!"

"It was a Drumstick," The small boy whispered.

"A what?!"

"A uh… A Drumstick. They uh… they're like… it's an ice cream cone, with nuts an' chocolate an' stuff."

"Shit head! You're gonna go to _juvie_ over some damn _ice cream_!" Merle roared, lashing out with a backhand that knocked the younger boy out of the chair. "If Pop don't kill you first! Jesus, boy, mind tellin' me what the hell was so goddamn special about this fuckin' ice cream?!"

Daryl couldn't look his brother in the eye. It was stupid. How the hell was he supposed to tell Merle that just once, he wanted to be like the other kids? That they all ate Drumsticks, and hung out in front of the gas station after school, and Daryl wanted to be a part of it? That for once he didn't want to be the odd one out?

"Christ, Daryl, can you at least tell me why the hell you felt you had to shove Ol' Mr. Slant-eyes over the counter?"

"He… He grabbed me, an'… I dunno, I jus' kinda… pushed him. Didn't think I pushed him that hard."

Finally, Merle dropped down in the only other chair, taking a deep breath as he scrubbed his hands over his face.

"Daryl… they gonna eat you _alive_ in there, boy," He finally said with a sad chuckle. "You ain't… ah, fuck, Darlena. _Shit_."

Cautiously, Daryl pulled himself up off the floor, his ears still ringing, and carefully sat down across from his brother.

"I'm sorry, Merle… I jus'… I wasn't thinkin', I jus'…"

Merle nodded, reaching across the table, and setting his hand on the bruise that was quickly forming on Daryl's face.

"Daryl… You jus'… You ain't gonna make it on the inside, boy," Merle said, and the desperation in his voice scared the hell out of Daryl. "An' I don't know anyone I trust on the inside ta look after ya."

Daryl forced himself to sit up taller. "I can take care a myself, Merle. I'm gonna be fine," He said, with a conviction he didn't feel.

Apparently, Merle didn't believe him either, as the older brother scoffed, and pulled his hand away sharply.

"Go on. Get outta here!" Merle snapped, when Daryl froze to the chair. "Find a place to crash for the night. I'll… Fuck, I'll talk to Pop. Go on! Get! 'Fore I… 'fore I change my damn fool mind."

* * *

Merle waited, like a pent up tiger, as his old man popped open his can of Guinness, and plopped his fat ass down at the dinner table.

"Where's your brother?"

Merle shrugged, as he leaned against the kitchen wall. "Dunno. Ain't seen him all day."

Georgie Dixon grinned. "Really. See, that's funny, 'cause… I couldda swore that I seen his damn backpack in the hallway." He took a long drag of his beer, and Merle braced himself for the inevitable. "Got a call at work today."

"Yeah?"

The older man chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah. Bet you'll never guess who it was."

Merle shrugged. "Probably the cops."

* * *

Daryl wrapped his arms around his knees the best he could, tucking his head down, while still trying to maintain his balance in the oak tree at the edge of the Dixon property line. Far enough away from the run-down trailer he called 'home' that he couldn't make out words, but close enough to tell that his daddy knew about what had happened.

It sounded like two junkyard dogs going at it inside. He couldn't even distinguish who was yelling when, but the sounds of furniture breaking, and things banging around told him that –at the very least –Merle was giving as good as he got.

He knew people didn't understand his brother. Most people thought Merle was trash, just like their daddy. But that wasn't true.

Yeah, Merle might've been a little rough around the edges. Little too free with his fists at times. But he tried looking after Daryl the best he could. Hell, Merle had raised Daryl more than their mama or Pop ever had. It was _Merle_ who'd saved up (or stolen) enough money for Daryl's first crossbow. _Merle_ who took him on his first hunting trip. _Merle_ who made sure Daryl ate at least once a day. _Merle_ who made sure Daryl had at least three sets of clothes to wear.

_Merle_ who always stepped in when Pop got out of hand, something that usually earned the oldest Dixon brother a beating in his baby brother's stead.

A few stray tears made their way down Daryl's face, before he angrily swiped them away. '_Men don't cry, 'lil brother_,' Merle always told him. '_Men jus' get even_.' So Daryl did his best not to cry. Wasn't right anyways, crying while Merle was most likely taking the beating meant him.

He wasn't sure how long he waited up in that tree. Couldn't have been much more than half an hour. Seemed forever.

But finally, he heard the front door slam shut. Heard Pop's truck turn over, and heard the squealing as Pop tore out of the driveway, probably on his way to the bar. Daryl waited until the last remnants of light from the vehicle had vanished, before shimmying down the tree, stumbling awkwardly on still-sleeping limbs as he scurried towards the house.

"Merle?" He called out, cautiously opening the back door. "Merle?"

"In here, 'lil brother," Came Merle's tired response.

Knowing it was safe, Daryl scooted through the mudroom, and into the kitchen, pausing for a moment to take in the wreckage.

Obviously one –or maybe both –of the men in his life had gotten slammed against the old kitchen table, which now lay in pieces, scattered across the floor. He couldn't even pick out the remnants of the chairs. Fresh holes in the sheetrock littered the entire room, and new dents and dings on the floor, counter, and appliances gave testament to the battle that had gone down.

Merle sat on the far side of the room, back leaning against the refrigerator, blood dripping from his face, head, and arms, coating his knuckles.

Without thought, or hesitation, Daryl rushed his brother. "Jesus, Merle, you a'ight?" He asked, hating the squeak in his voice as he wrapped one of the larger boy's arms around his shoulders, and attempted to haul him off the floor.

"Aw, shit… Jus' leave it, Darlena," Merle grumbled, going limp. Daryl fell with him to the ground, and Merle chuckled a little at the way those huge baby blue eyes stared at him. "I'm fine, 'lil brother. Jus'… Make yourself useful, an' get me a cold wet rag, or somethin'."

His little brother practically ran to do as Merle had asked, nearly skidding into the wall on the return trip with the wet washcloth in his haste. Merle took it with a silent nod of thanks, and set it on his quickly swelling eye.

"Aw, shit, Darlena. You royally fucked up this time. Ya better hope he finds a damn good lay at the bar tonight. 'Cause if he still pissed tomorrow, you on your own, boy."

Hearing sniffling, Merle took the cloth off his eyes, and glared at his younger brother.

"Don't you start none a that cryin' shit, boy. Otherwise you'll wish Pop had whooped your ass by the time I'm done with ya. Understand?"

He chuckled again as Daryl glared at him, swiping at his face with his ratty long sleeves. "Shut up. I ain't cryin'," The smaller boy muttered. "Jus'… lotta dust you kicked up in here, ya know?"

Still chuckling, Merle wrapped an arm around Daryl's shoulder, and pulled him down, until the younger Dixon was sitting next to his big brother, head settling comfortably on Merle's chest.

"Yeah," Merle said softly, foregoing his tough-ass routine –_just for tonight!_ –as he let his fingers ruffle through Daryl's dirty mess of hair. "I know."


End file.
